


athens

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [14]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005), Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Πλούταρχος | Parallel Lives - Plutarch
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Misuse of Sappho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: They met in Athens, for the second time.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 27
Kudos: 34





	1. a prologue

`BRUTUS Thus ever, for tyrants!`

`[ _The_ CHORUS OF SENATORS _step back as one and kneel, forming a semi-circle of solemn faces around the scene of the fallen tyrant and_ ANTONIUS _, who stands above him with his head bowed, naked blade still in hand._ CASSIUS _enters at a run._ ]`

`CASSIUS And thank the gods! But now the urgent question is before us – where will Rome turn without a hand to guide it? For tyrant though he was, Caesar had many followers, and a great many more allies. What shall we do, O what shall we do!`

`ANTONIUS Look not to me with these small concerns, Friend Cassius.`

`CASSIUS But Antonius, could those be tears shining upon your cheeks?`

`[BRUTUS _interposes his body between them. He reaches out a hand to the other man's shoulder._ ]`

`BRUTUS Be not ashamed of your tears, Antonius. It is only natural that you should feel so conflicted in this moment of triumph. We both loved him, but as you possess my heart, you were destined to feel twice the grief.`

`ANTONIUS Your heart?`

`BRUTUS Could you ever doubt it? In one hand you hold my heart, and in the other you carry my blade. A man needs another for these, if he is to lead a nation.`

`[CASSIUS _steps closer, hands clasped before him. He looks hopeful_.]`

`CASSIUS Does this mean you have a plan, Noble Brutus?`

`BRUTUS I do.`

`ANTONIUS Then there can be no question: Rome is saved.`

`[ _The_ CHORUS OF SENATORS _stand and begin to dance_.]  
  
`

* * *

  
“Well. That, that was,” said Brutus, and no more.

“Not half bad,” decided Antony, reclined on the first step with his head against Brutus's knee. “Mind you, I'm not sure about the fellow who played me – far too pretty, and what a pottery jaw. He'd fold like a tent after one punch. But, you know, at least it was entertaining.”

Brutus frowned. “What are you talking about? It was maudlin. Sentimental and not to mention riddled with inaccuracies. I particularly didn't care for the part where they implied you fucked Caesar.”

“Wait, is _that_ what they meant with that one line in Act III?” wondered Lucilius.

Antony said nothing. After a moment he casually picked up his drink and drained it. Brutus registered the long tipping motion and fumbled his own cup. The remnants of his wine spilled out, but he paid no heed, staring as he was down at the other man.

Meanwhile Lucilius continued to squint at the stage, looking lost. “But I thought they also suggested you were both his secret sons back in Act I?”

“I've been accused of pretty much everything else under the sun,” said Antony, determinedly not looking back at Brutus. “Might as well throw incest and patricide in there as well.”

“You know, I quite liked the play,” said Aristocrates. “I think I am going to tell everyone I know to come see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...most ridiculous update ever? most ridiculous update ever. in my defense, I've slept an average of like 4 hours every night for the past 8 days. also y'know...  
> :gestures semi-hysterically at world:


	2. autumn

With Baccha occupying Aristocrates's attention behind him, Brutus looked ahead at the house. It seemed much as he remembered – what little he remembered, that is; twenty years was a long time for a person, though somewhat less long for a house. The trees had grown pleasantly around it, a hint wildly because Aristocrates had never been one to listen to Brutus's advice on matters of landscaping.

How many times had he stepped up to this threshold, looking for him? When he was younger, Brutus treated it lightly: a scripted drama with predictable lines, each man accorded his role. But now he approached and felt almost numb with his nerves.

An empire to direct, and this was what brought him to a standstill. If he hadn't expected it, it would've been galling. But through the many days of his tenure, he always knew: this was it, for him.  
  


* * *

  
He stood that first day just inside the doorway of Aristocrates's house and looked across at Antony, half-risen from his seat in shocked pleasure. _He is much thinner. I would not be away from him again._ He could finally allow himself to have such thoughts, now that he was there, and the idea was not a fruitless complaint against facts he could not change.

Before they could reunite, however, the narrowing path between them was intercepted by an unknown person.

“Brutus – Princeps,” greeted the man. He was at least a decade younger, and looked very much like Antony but for his narrow build. He also seemed to have a death wish, judging from the look Antony sent him, and this was how Brutus surmised the man to be Gaius Antonius, the youngest son of Julia.

“Honored to meet you at last,” said Gaius. “I'm a big fan of the way you stuck it to all the generals during your consular year.”

Antony arrived beside them, dark eyes meeting Brutus's for a searing second before he turned to face his brother. He leaned his elbow upon Brutus's shoulder, draping his body over him, warm and claiming as a toga of state. The only vestment Brutus would desire from that moment for the rest of his life.

“Love a man who knows how to wield power,” continued Gaius, relentless.

Brutus's smile didn't waver; he had gotten much better at this part. “In my experience, it's less a question of how to wield power and more of learning to recognize when others won't.”

Antony used his weight to jostle him lightly. “Ah, but listen to him. Brutus the Long-Suffering. That'll be the epithet of choice if anyone ever writes an epic poem about you.”

It would be unseemly to turn and press his face in abject relief against the other man's chest, which was the only reason Brutus did not do so just then.

The strength of his response startled him, for though he had been keenly aware of Antony's absence, he had grown very good at directing his attention elsewhere during the waking hours. Now it seemed as if all his longing rose up at once: safe to feel because the source of his torment was gone.  
  


* * *

  
Antony had spent months thinking about what he would do the next time he saw Brutus. Not knowing when that would be, and suspecting it might be years yet in the future, the general tone of the fantasies had been depressingly maudlin as often as they were sexually arousing.

And suffice to say, his little brother had never been a factor in them.

“So what finally drove you away from our glorious city,” asked Antony, turning his head to speak directly into his ear. “It was the consul Dolabella, wasn't it? Tell me it was Dolabella. One too many dinner parties with that man and you fled across the continent.”

Gaius looked at his brother with a scowl. “Can you show Brutus some respect?”

They both choked. Brutus, being the more reserved, concealed it much better, while Antony leaned into the moment and spat his wine out upon the floor.

His brother wrinkled his nose, disgusted in the way only a younger sibling could be. He was such a fucking brat, thought Antony.

“Gaius,” he said, “When are you moving along to Rome?”

“Rome?” he scoffed. “Who goes to Rome these days? All the real players reside elsewhere. They say Cicero is in Thessalonica giving lectures, that Quintus Pompey is still calling up new recruits for his fleet in Sicily. What's in Rome?”

“Julia, our mother,” he said shortly. “And if you tarry too long, she'll blame me.”

But Gaius did not seem to care. He was already turning back to Brutus, who began to look distinctly hunted.

“Tell me how you convinced the Assembly to vote you in as Princeps,” he said. “Did you single out any key men to work on first?”

“Oh, you know,” said Brutus vaguely. “There were... interested parties. Agents.”

Antony stepped back and folded his arms with great interest. “Agents, you say.”

“They certainly had agency.”

“The virtuous man's dream,” said Antony lightly.

“A dream that would be withheld by all around him if he's not careful.”

“And you are always careful, Brutus.”

He eyed him. “I can think of one or two moments in time I was not.”

Gaius seemed to at last sense the conversation was of some private nature he could not hope to comprehend. His face creased in faint annoyance. “If you wanted to be alone, Marcus,” he said coldly to his eldest brother, “You could have simply said.”

“Could I, Gaius?” he replied, turning on his heel. “Could I really, is it as simple as that? Has it ever been?”

“I can take a hint. I'm not Pietas.”

Antony's forearms tensed, preparing. “You certainly aren't. He has tact.”

“He has an endless capacity for appeasement, you mean,” he said dismissively.

“So says the baby, who has never needed to compromise to get what he wanted.”

And at last came the moment when words were not enough, and the two reverted some primordial pre-verbal state. Gaius's face twisted and he snaked a hand forward, knocking Antony's cup from his grasp – he was away across the room in the next second, Antony giving a violent lunging chase.

Brutus, possessing no brothers and belonging to a family that preferred to inflict emotional rather than physical damage besides, could only sigh and watch the subsequent brawl with bemusement.  
  


* * *

  
After, Antony lay prone with his head in Brutus's lap, eyes shut so as to not fight the swelling of the bruise on the right side of his face. Brutus folded a hand over his neck, relishing the steady thump of his pulse against his palm, and conversed with Lucilius, who he had not seen for near as long a time as Antony.

There was something between them, and even knowing its cause and refusing to regret it, Brutus felt the old pain. It was not right, that he should look upon features so well known and dear to him, and feel this unbridgeable distance.

“I see why you like it here,” said Lucilius. “The Athenians are very... spirited. Friendly – most of them.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Aristocrates was listening to Gaius while reclining with an arm over his eyes. Lucilius lowered his voice. “Although, I do not think our host cares for me.”

“Aristocrates is offended by your stubborn and single-minded preference for women,” said Antony, not opening his eyes. Brutus's eyebrows rose; Lucilius's lowered.

“No,” said the latter slowly after a second. “I don't think that could be it. And what an odd thing to hold against a fellow if so!”

Brutus tightened his fingers repressively, indicating that Antony should say no more. To his friend he said, “Never mind. Once I finish setting up my household here, you are of course welcome to stay with us.”

Antony opened his eyes and shifted onto his back so he could look up with surprise at Brutus. “We aren't staying here? How long do you plan to be in Athens?”

Brutus had not yet decided and did not wish to get into the matter in front of others. “It sounds as if our friend's hospitality has been tried enough as of late. Why continue to trespass when I can afford to host myself?”

Antony did not reply but continued to study him thoughtfully. His hand crept up and took Brutus's, and Brutus had to look away. There were many things he did not wish to get into in front of others.

“Lucilius, tell me of your last campaign. I heard a member of enemy cavalry jumped clear over your head.”

“Those strange eastern horses,” exclaimed Lucilius and launched gratefully into his story.  
  


* * *

  
When the evening grew just late enough that a weary traveler might politely retire, Antony took hold of Brutus's shoulders from behind and steered him through the house. Once out of the main lights and view of prying eyes, he neatly reversed their positions, so that he was walking backwards down the hall, tugging a compliant Brutus along.

It was strange, he thought. All that time and now he felt no rush.

“So,” he said. “You have come to Athens.”

“One can listen to others claim the princeps can do 'whatever he wants' only so many times, before the princeps decides it is so.”

They reached the door to Antony's room. “And what the princeps wants is to spend the winter with me before I leave for Parthia.”

Brutus paused strangely, a breath of consideration in which they both did the mental math, that torturous tallying of how long they had together, and then his face cleared and he pushed forward, kissing Antony against the door frame.

His hands slipped down Antony's chest, and he murmured, “You're near as thin as me now, this won't do.”

“You were always terrible at sweet nothings,” said Antony, breath catching. He felt behind them for the door latch.

“Dearest Antony,” said the other dryly, “You make me understand why Catullus was bad-tempered in so many of his love poems.”

And then they were in the room, in the blessed dark, together.


	3. winter

The arrival of Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger in Athens during the Consulship of Dolabella and Plancus was received with widespread enthusiasm.

The people of Greece loved no one so much as one who loved Greece back; with both Antony and Brutus both now residing in the city, the word went, Athens had managed a moral victory of sorts. It had conquered its conquerors.

 _Your tenure in Rome may be over_ , said more than one prominent citizen, half-joking, _but you shall always be consuls of our hearts._

Many honours were given to the pair, and their presence was greatly sought after for public events. No lecture, concert, or play was considered successful that didn't host them in the audience. Invitations to parties arrived every day, addressed not to each but to both, for in public they were rarely out of one another's company.

When news of their joint household made its way through the social circles of the city, it spurred more interested conversation than the latest raids by Quintus Pompey's pirate fleet. Poets sharpened their styluses; artisans practiced capturing the precise proportions of the men's faces – and then embellished where appropriate for flattery's sake.

Between Brutus's unassailable composure and Antony's insouciant swagger, the exact nature of their union proved hard to parse. Speculation was rampant. More than one heated argument began in private homes among drunk friends regarding which of the Romans was the erastes and which, the eromenos.

( _What does it matter?_ the rare individual might venture at such a gathering. _Why do you care about the particulars of their relationship?_

 _It just matters, alright_ came the dogged reply, the only response one could make to such a tedious display of conscientious indifference.)  
  


* * *

  
There was, however, at least one person who was not pleased to have Brutus in Athens; Lucius Censorinus found it hard to feel the full glory of his governorship with Rome's first man hanging about.

It was especially maddening because Brutus stubbornly maintained to be in the city in the capacity of a private citizen – but whenever their paths crossed he insisted on engaging the governor in conversations that went something like:

“I'm not trying to step on your toes, Censorinus,” he said pleasantly.

Censorinus's grip on his wine cup tightened. “No, no. Of course not.”

“I'm here strictly as a private citizen.”

“And the city rejoices,” he said hastily.

“Mind you—”

“Ah.”

“I couldn't help but notice.” Almost apologetic.

“Oh, no – please.” Painfully insincere.

“Your tax publicani have been applying an uneven hand to the merchants in the eastern district. A few happened to mention it to me the other day, you see.”

“Did they.”

“It came up, yes. Casual conversation.”

At Brutus's side, Antonius narrowed his eyes in an unsuccessful effort to maintain a straight face. He sipped his wine.

“You have an interesting definition of casual conversation, Brutus,” said Censorinus evenly.

“Oh, not really,” said the Princeps. “It's only, people insist on talking of such things with me. I suppose I don't question it anymore.

“That is... most tolerant of you.”

They smiled at one another, and Antonius inspected his wine with a desperate hard eye. A silence formed and stretched, and Brutus's brow eventually lifted.

“So the tax publicani,” he started again.

“I'll look into it,” said Censorinus curtly. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“My only wish is to aid you in a successful governorship.”

The governor smiled again and nodded first to Brutus and then to Antonius before moving away. Behind him, he heard Brutus say:

“Not a word.”

“Wasn't going to say anything,” said Antonius easily. “Here, let us talk to that actress from earlier. She was very engaging.”

“Rot. You think there's a chance she'll fuck both of us at once.”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

Censorinus gritted his teeth, finished his drink, and stalked away. That should've been him, he thought viciously; why else become governor of Greece?  
  


* * *

  
“Antony.” Voice, beloved; tone, insufferable.

Antony controlled his expression and continued with his leg stretches. “Mm.”

“Your maps are infringing on my table space. We agreed upon a border of the vase.”

Antony paused in his stretching and glanced over with a purposefully disinterested eye. “Looks like my maps are minding the border.”

“That's not the point. I'm saying you moved the vase.”

“Surely you do not think I would move with such obvious aggression upon the line. Who would want a repeat of the last time we negotiated the border?”

He was, of course, being completely facetious. The last time they negotiated the border, they'd wrecked the old table and neither of them had been able to walk right for two days. But Brutus had decided this was somewhat below his dignity when he had public appearances to keep up in the city; Antony was thus extra motivated to provoke a repeat of the incident.

“I'm not sure why you cannot use one of the other rooms for your campaign.” This was not the first time he had voiced such a complaint. “The house is plenty big enough.”

It certainly was; Brutus had very strong opinions on the size of one's dwelling and how it reflected his stature to the world. But Antony disliked empty rooms and had grown used to sharing, so the man was going to have to simply accept matters as they stood.

“I don't care for the morning light in the other rooms,” he said, bending forward over his legs once more.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Brutus. “You're never up early enough for the light to matter.”

“Light in the morning means none in the afternoon,” he pointed out.

The other man was silent, then: “So I'm to spend the entire winter tripping over your war plans.”

Antony turned his head and cast a perfectly benign look upon him. He said sweetly, “Come spring, you'll have the whole table to yourself.”

As happened at least half the time, the conversation ended with Brutus stalking off in a strop instead of climbing over Antony and kissing him into the floor. They aligned as frequently as they clashed, and he could not work out the logic of the maneuvers.

Alone in the room, Antony moved the vase again.  
  


* * *

  
On a cold, rainy morning in December, a defeated man found his way to the house and asked for an audience with the general Mark Antony.

Antony entered the front room, still shrugging on his toga and yawning wide. He stopped short. “Lucius Vorenus,” he said, a little blankly. “Don't tell me you cursed your children to Hades again.”

“No sir,” returned the man stiffly. Misery carved itself into his unmoving face like a river through a canyon. “But the first time proved effective enough. There is only so much hatred a man can bear to see when he looks into his children's eyes.”

Antony sat upon a coach. He knocked his hand through a bowl of fruit and fished out a small winter apple. “Bit of unpleasantness in the home, I take it.”

“My eldest daughter tried to kill me.”

“Ah.” And he thought his family dysfunctional.

“If not for Pullo, she would have succeeded – I think, I think sometimes it might have been better if she had,” he confessed.

Antony had always carried more fellow feeling for the centurion than he'd wished or cared to investigate too deeply. He was so manifestly unfit for civilian life; he lacked a talent for happiness; and then there were the black moods he fell into.

He tapped a finger along the apple and said, “You need a war. I take it that is why you've fetched back up on our doorstep?”

Vorenus raised his chin. “They say you plan to leave for Parthia at spring melt.”

“I do,” he confirmed and bit into the apple. He chewed a moment, considering the man still standing in the center of the room. “But I have no need for men who are merely looking for a way to die. Parthia's hard business. Tricky, like.”

He fixed his peculiar pale eyes unblinking upon Antony. “Sir, I would hope I have proven to you that once I swear to a cause, I am committed. Permit me to rejoin the Thirteenth, and I will march upon the hydra of Tartarus if you bid it.”

Which, fair enough. Antony would also rather take on a fifty-headed beast than be left behind with his own thoughts.  
  


* * *

  
Late in the month, Antony achieved his life goal of bestowing a crown upon a worthy head; their household elected Eros King of Saturnalia.

“Heavy is the crown,” said Brutus, smiling and handing the slave a wine cup. “But I have every confidence you will rule with abandon.”

Eros eyed Antony, who had swept up to his side holding an amphora and was now gazing at him with a most obsequious manner.

“My king, what is your wish?” asked Antony rapturously. He was greatly flushed from amusement. It was a good look on him, after languishing wan for so long.

“But who will do your laundry?” asked Eros, fretting; for a break was no real break if all the work piled up and awaited him at the end of the festival.

“I'll make Gaius do it,” said Antony.

“You absolutely will not,” said Gaius hotly.

Antony rolled his eyes. To his slave he said, “Fine, _I_ 'll do it. Now stop being a bore and give some orders.”

Eros looked around again at the array of Romans. Their bright-eyed expectation was unnerving, but also infectious. An unfamiliar thrill ran through him and he blurted out, “I should like to wear the green toga, the one with the gold link pattern.”

“Now you're talking,” said Antony with satisfaction, and went to fetch the article in question.  
  


* * *

  
As with any days-long festival, the first night of Saturnalia was devoted to that brand of accelerating madness peculiar to those adjusting to a new normal: the usual rules of society proving a collective dream, momentarily dispelled.

Their king went from absentmindedly picking up discarded plates and trays in the first few hours to, by dawn, ordering his subjects to seek out more appropriate dress for the new day. His instructions were both specific and exacting.

“You'll have to apply the gold dust to my back,” said Antony to Brutus. “I've clearly been neglecting some component of my stretching, for I can no longer twist my arms as I once could.”

“Welcome to your forties,” said Brutus. He turned a headdress over in his hands, not without some reluctance. “Do I really have to wear this?”

“Yes.” Antony would brook no insubordination on his slave's behalf.

He sighed and pulled on the elaborate piece, hands coming up to cradle and straighten the head so its snout wasn't tipping over his vision. “You don't think he, you know. Meant anything by it. Do you?”

Antony surveyed the massive bull's head now sitting atop his lover. The nose ring was a nice touch, he thought. Aloud he said, “Do I think Eros meant anything by dressing you as a misbegotten monster who lurks at the center of a story, waiting to kill the hero?” Brutus blinked at him and Antony shrugged and turned away. “Nah.”

Brutus eyed him. Antony was wearing a gauzy blue peplos, which he had borrowed for a few days from a neighbor's daughter in exchange for a traveling mantle. “I suppose it would be beneath my dignity to complain you are the only one of us who will not look a fool.”

Antony slid a pair of gold bands up his forearm. “Don't be too envious, Brutus. This may seem like the better option, but recall my history. She may decide to strike me down for daring to garb myself as her. Or for being insufficiently beautiful as I do it, I suppose.”

For Antony was dressed as Venus. Brutus was silent for a moment, studying the play of light over the gold dusting on his neck and arms.

He said quietly, “I believe you overestimate the contempt she holds for you, Antony.” But saying any more required them to talk about what happened during Octavian's attack on Rome, which as a rule they did not discuss.  
  


* * *

  
In the corner of the main room, a satyr and a minotaur argued philosophy poorly while the rest of the party tried to enjoy some poetry.

“I mean,” said Gaius loudly, “you can just never be sure, can you? Any man – listen to me now – any man claiming he believes something has opened himself to being wrong, hasn't he. Can't have one without the other. Because no man is a, a, a—”

“Island?” supplied Brutus, mystified.

“What?” Gaius steadied himself against the wall and shook his head. “No, that's silly.”

“No, it's a metaphor.”

“And it's a silly metaphor. Isn't the very nature of an island to be surrounded?”

“Hadn't thought of it quite like that,” said Brutus around the mouth of his upturned cup.

“No, what I'm saying. What I'm saying _is_ , mortal man is never truly alone. So long as he is in a community – which is inevitable because we are rapidly running out of space on this fucking continent – he is being ruled in some fashion, which means friction with others, which means – say it with me now, he can be _wrong_. And a broken belief equals suffering, which as we all know is no good, so. Basically, the only reasonable thing to do is have no beliefs, right.”

“What you are describing amounts to epistemological chaos, and I won't have it,” said Brutus, his bull's head falling askew as he set down his wine cup on a side table with force and launched into an unfortunately full-throated rebuttal.

Meanwhile, across the room, the king reclined on his throne (a couch resting on a table to give it respectable height) and gestured for the next would-be poet laureate of Saturnalia to come forth.

Lucilius, after standing and wavering slightly, shuffled forward to stand before him. He threw his head back and closed his eyes. It was as likely he did so out of a need to remember the words than for balance, but it did not detract from the aching emotion with which he recited his offering to the king.

“Do not call my love cheap because it springs plentiful. Is the life-giving water of a mighty river less sweet because if flows freely? Love joins us into one, and I seek to be part of an ever-greater whole.”

“This,” said Aristocrates off to the side, “is insupportable.”

Vorenus, lying on the floor, said: “I agree. Love is nothing like that. Love is the flicker of sunlight on the surface of a pool in the middle of a dark wood. It beckons you close. You think if you look upon it, you will see the source of all light – but when you look down, all you see is yourself. Still alone. Love is a lie.”

Antony and Aristocrates considered this.

“That is not – precisely what I meant.” Aristocrates cut his eyes over. “Your man here's rather a grim sort, isn't he?”

Antony patted Vorenus's chest in commiseration and poured Aristocrates another cup. “I'm sure Lucilius is dreadful in bed, or something,” he offered. “Think about it: so earnest!”

The Greek propped his head up on his fist and said glumly, “He isn't. He had a woman in the courtyard last night, and I could hear them through the window.”

“Oh?” said Antony with a new spark of interest. “Do tell.”

“No, I shan't – it's too depressing,” he said and gulped his wine.  
  


* * *

  
Late that night, the streets were crowded tightly with people – few sober – and the group linked arms to keep track of one another as they walked back from the main feast; they had already misplaced Vorenus.

“Up, up with roof,” sang the brothers Antonius, stamping their feet.

“Hymenaios,” intoned Aristocrates.

“Raise it high, you carpenters!”

“Hymenaois!”

“The bridegroom is coming, Ares' equal,” bellowed the three together. In their enthusiasm, one stumbled and the entire group nearly went down. But this did not stop them from continuing, “larger by far than a... large? Man....”

“The poet would weep,” said Brutus to Lucilius.

“Who? Which?” he replied, shouting to be heard over the ruckus. “I haven't understood a thing they've sang for quite some time.”

“It's for the best,” he assured him.  
  


* * *

  
“Don't let the jealous dawn dampen your fires,” called Antony to the group as they abandoned them in the main room. It was hard to say who was dragging who, for their hands were both clumsy and grasping and neither was particularly steady on his feet.

Aristocrates, lying helpless on a couch with Lucilius's head in his lap, only raised a hand in solemn farewell. Gaius was already prostrated on the floor at their feet, having brought shame to the Antonia gens by being the first man to pass out. Meanwhile, Eros sang to himself and danced alone around the room, feet moving gracefully from stone to stone. His crown winked in the candle light.

“I do hope Vorenus does not meet with disaster,” said Brutus, once inside their bedroom. He pushed the peplos from Antony's shoulders. It pooled on the floor and they stepped over it.

“The man found Caesar's eagle while traipsing on foot through Gaul. I am confident he can find his way through Athens at night.”

Antony's thighs hit the bed and he pulled Brutus in by the arms, swinging him down beside him. He bent his head and pressed his mouth to the other man's throat and a hand came up to bury itself in his hair.

They kissed for an unknown time. Wine made them slow and lazy, filling their veins with drowsy contentment. They had no reason to fear the future in that moment; Antony's mouth was a promise and Brutus's hands were forever.

But such is the nature of inebriation, and lovemaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The er, song Antony and the group sing as they are walking through the city is Sappho's fragment 111, translated by Andrew M. Miller.
> 
> Happy Holidays, everybody! The final chapter (like, absolutely for real this time) will be up before the new year.


	4. spring

As the winter aged and spring neared, Rome cast its gaze abroad and considered its many troubles.

The seas were beset by Quintus Pompey's pirate fleet; in Alexandria, an opportunistic queen returned the Republic's attention and waited, ever patient; far to the east, the Parthian prince Pacorus was stirring trouble in Armenia; and a vengeful Octavius Caesar roved the continent, supported by Cicero in Thessalonica.

In Athens, two men stood poised to make a decision.  
  


* * *

  
Gaius was the first to depart the city.

“Marcus, I must tell you, I have a strong sense of foreboding,” he said. They stood on the street, holding each other's elbows. It was the closest they ever came to a full embrace.

“Yes, that seems to be going around as of late,” replied Antony, thinking of Brutus and how the man's sleep was recently greatly disturbed. Many nights he awoke to find the other side of the bed empty and cool to the touch, while an edge of flickering light shone from the connecting study.

Gaius continued, oblivious to his brother's darker worries, “I just know the moment I'm away from here, you shall change your mind about Parthia and decide to engage in some bold plot – leaving me out of it, as always.”

“Brat,” said Antony, not without affection. He cuffed him lightly and stood back. “If you see Pietas and Fulvia before I do, ask them why we haven't a nephew yet.”

“Children can be useful bargaining tools in diplomatic talks,” said Gaius thoughtfully.

“ _How_ are you Mamma's favorite?”  
  


* * *

  
“That one,” said Aristocrates, coming to stand beside Antony as they watched the Gaius depart, “is going to open his mouth at the wrong time to the wrong person some day, and it won't end well for him.”

Antony gazed until his brother's figure was lost to the distance and crowds. “You get no credit for that prediction, Friend. It's the Antonii way, after all.”  
  


* * *

  
Antony leaned in the doorway of the study and said, “We're going to be late.”

“Mm, right,” said Brutus, not looking up from his desk. “You might have to go without me.”

“Go without you,” he said, kicking off the frame. “Right, that should go over well, me showing up alone to the dinner being held in your honor. Akakios will be thrilled.”

He unrolled more of a scroll. “Are we not as one? Tonight they shall host you, and I'm sure at some future point they shall have me.”

Antony's eyebrows slowly rose; he stared; he waited. When the other man did not appear to notice his ostentatious display of disbelief, he strode two steps and planted a heavy palm over the scroll, flattening it.

He finally looked up. “ _Excuse_ me, what—”

“Brutus, did you just misappropriate a love vow for a – a fucking rain check?”

Brutus opened his mouth and paused. He cast his eyes up to the ceiling, squinting: visibly searching for a safe path forward.

Antony snatched the scroll up. “What are you even working on, anyway,” he said, scanning it. “This isn't poetry or philosophy, this is – what, an intelligence report?” He paused. “An _outdated_ intelligence report.”

His eyes snapped down. “What do you mean, outdated?” he said, affronted. “I just received that this morning.”

Antony waved the scroll at him and tossed it back down. He sat on the edge of the desk. “Octavian is in Judaea.”

“No, this clearly says he is still traveling with Cicero through Macedonia.”

“And I imagine they will link up again at some point. But for now – Judaea. Boy has been busy, I'll give him that. He journeyed to Alexandria to seek the support of Cleopatra Philopator in the summer.”

“How do you know all this when I do not?” wondered Brutus, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms.

“Oh, don't sulk – my information has always been better than yours. That's what you get when you spurn vulgar sources, you know.”

Brutus thought about it, considering him narrowly. “And was your source? Vulgar, I mean. How can you be sure of the veracity of the report?”

He spread his hands. “I'm as sure as if the gods sent a vision. The Egyptian queen wrote to me herself – she seemed amused by Octavian more than anything.” He paused and reflected, “Intelligent woman. Knows which side to pick.”

“More likely, she wanted both sides to be aware of the weight of her allegiance,” replied Brutus. He eyed the other man, who had his head back and was likely daydreaming of Alexandrian delights. He asked carefully, “Has she written often?”

“Hm? Oh. We carry on a light correspondence.” Antony looked at him, sharply knowing. “Are you offended she wrote me and not you?”

“Of course not,” he said. _Offended_ was certainly not the term he would use. “As you say, she is an intelligent woman. She knows where to apply her charms.”  
  


* * *

  
Lucilius left in Februarius.

“Your legion has recalled you?” asked Brutus, puzzled. “I thought you were stood down in the wake of the centralization of imperium.”

“I – have been recalled,” said Lucilius.

Only Aristocrates noticed the hedge. He sat back with a cup of wine and considered the Roman with open curiosity.

“That's a shame. I had hoped you would stay back with this one,” said Antony from a couch, indicating Brutus with a wave of the hand. “He'll need someone around to remind him to be himself now and again. I fear when I come back west, he will have completed his metamorphosis into an actual politician. There will be no saving the Republic then.”

Lucilius smiled slightly. “You should not worry. I hardly think Brutus will become as Sulla.”

And Brutus blanched, for no reason anyone could divine. He said after a moment, “Sulla retired. I have yet to glimpse an opportunity for me to do so.”

Retirement, Brutus had lately begun to suspect, was perhaps a different sort of death. He knew he once would have tossed wine into the face of any man who suggested this – had, in fact, tossed wine in Antony's face more than once – but this knowledge now felt like the thoughts of another man, a shade who lingered in the corner of his mind and provoked only pensive grief.

Brutus walked Lucilius out alone. Both men were somber, and they did not touch. When Brutus ventured a glance down, his old friend was staring ahead, looking slightly lost.

“You know your directions?” he asked, in case the emotion was of a literal variety.

Lucilius smiled up at him. “Yes, thank you. Aristocrates was a keen taskmaster in Athenian geography.”

They stopped at the front gate and turned fully to face one another.

“I shall miss you,” said Brutus, taking hold of his own elbows, as it felt strangely wrong to take hold of Lucilius. “It always feels like our time together is so short.”

The other man made a considering sound. “Think of it this way – you shall have an excuse to pour all your woes, small and large, onto parchment again. I know how you enjoy writing long personal letters.”

The lines on either side of Brutus's mouth deepened as he smiled tightly and looked down. He took a breath and said, “I fear I have tested your loyalty greatly, Lucilius. I hope some day you can forgive me for it.”

The soldier's eyes were very bright as he replied, “There is nothing to forgive between friends such as us. Please know – know I only act as honor demands, always.”

Lucilius embraced him quickly and was gone before Brutus could begin to parse his meaning.  
  


* * *

  
That night, Brutus spoke little, ate nothing, and drank a great deal. He sat too close to the hearth and stared into the fire, like he was seeking guidance from the flicker and leap of the flames.

At first, Antony did not disturb him. Brutus brooding – hardly a rare item, and generally best left alone. But as the hours passed, and the man remained stationary in front of the blaze, he grew impatient, and then wary.

When it was late and Brutus called for another cup of wine, it was Antony who brought it to him. He'd dismissed the slaves to bed long ago.

He handed the wine over, reaching to cup the accepting hand so the other man had to look at him. Brutus cut his eyes over and watched as Antony settled close beside him on the floor. One standing behind them would see no edge of firelight between their shoulders.

“The house is so quiet with the others gone, it feels a bit like we're sleeping off the road somewhere,” said Antony, speaking low because the walls did not feel like they would brook loud noise.

Brutus took a drink and said, “I do not envision much sleep in my future.”

Antony did not suppose the other man meant this as innuendo, but he double-checked his expression just in case. Then he sighed and nudged him with his elbow. “Alright, out with it. What's with you, why the face.”

“I cannot say for sure, only that I have this unshakable feeling that something terrible is about to befall us.”

“I am familiar with this feeling,” said Antony lightly, “It's called 'oh, I have to go home to Rome soon.'”

“No, that's not it,” said Brutus, his ill humor proving depressingly, if predictably, intransigent. “I can't put into words this fear I feel, only that I'm certain of its legitimacy.”

“If you can't name the fear, you can't fight it.”

“So you see the dilemma.”

Antony sighed and looked into the fire. “Brutus, ever without a plan.”

“I make plenty of plans,” he replied, testiness surfacing out of the solemnity like the flicker of an abandoned blade, half-buried in a riverbed. “You often do not get to see them because when you're involved, they tend to go awry.”

They both thought of that December, two years ago.

“Perhaps your fear is I will screw things up for you when I go to Parthia,” said Antony, voice flattening a little.

Brutus looked at him, eyes dark. “More like, if you go to Parthia, I'll never see you again.” And when Antony tried to brush this off, he put a hand out, covering the other man's knee. “I cannot be alone in this, Antony – I am constantly thinking of what little time we have left, what little is allotted to us this season, let alone in life, and I—”

“So come with me.”

Words failed Brutus.

Antony captured the hand on his knee and lifted it so that he might turn and kneel in front of him, blocking sight of the fire with his shoulders. “How can you look so surprised?” he demanded.

Brutus searched his eyes. “A sovereign does not run off to the edges of his empire. I thought – I thought you wanted me for this role.”

“Of the two of us, I have never been the one to compartmentalize. I do not love bloodlessly, or rationally.”

“That is true,” said Brutus, a little dry. And then, quietly: “You love me?”

“How can you doubt it? I fled to Syria the first time you left me. Couldn't wait to throw myself in front of a line of spears.”

And, because Brutus was always ruining Antony's big declaration, he said disapprovingly, “Your love has always had a self-destructive aspect to it.” But he spoke thus to hide the effect the confession had upon him.

Antony suppressed an eye roll and shuffled closer. “As you have too-often complained, self-protection does not come natural to me.”

The lines around Brutus's mouth deepened. “This is also true.”

“Why don't you stop judging truths and start the sentencing.”

“Oh, are you now the one to give orders?” Brutus's hands slid up his bare thighs and he leaned up on his knees so that his mouth might be level with Antony's; they watched one another with a growing, almost hopeful pleasure.

Antony shrugged gracefully. “Eh, I'm delegating – a general's prerogative.” He kissed him lightly and murmured into his lips, “Come to Parthia, Brutus, and watch over me.”

And Brutus might have been a man known for great restraint and self-denial, but denying Antony was simply not in _his_ nature.  
  


* * *

  
By spring, the house is a constant cross-avenue for couriers, slaves, minor functionaries and publicani, and, of course, soldiers.

Antony watched with bemusement as all his carefully crafted campaign plans were scrutinized and either rewritten or discarded outright. Brutus was not satisfied with his travel route, his supply train, the size of his retinue.

 _Not befitting men of our stature,_ Brutus said.

 _And what are we to eat before we reach Phraapa?_ Brutus demanded. _Barley?_

 _You call these bribes?_ Brutus asked in disbelief of the gifts Antony had planned to give Deiotarus, who ruled Galatia, a territory bordering Parthia.

 _And what is your plan for Archelaus and Ariarathes?_ Brutus inquired of the rival claimants of Cappadocia, another border territory.

“Brutus,” said Antony with menacing politeness, “of the two of us, remind me – who is the successful veteran general of several campaigns?”

Thus reminded of his place (“You are to be a figurehead on this campaign, a decoration. You are coming to feed me grapes and provide pleasure.”) Brutus subsided.

For about a day.  
  


* * *

  
Their fraught but considerable progress was interrupted a couple weeks before departure by a courier carrying official word from Rome.

“Care to wager?” asked Antony, slicing an apple into small crescents and watching as Brutus opened the message. “I bet Plancus is trying to filch some of our legions. All for the greater good of the Republic, of course. Your damned centralized imperium.”

“You have been declared an enemy of the state,” said Brutus.

Antony's chewing slowed and stopped.

Brutus lowered the message and stared at nothing.

After a long moment, Antony let his fingers relax, dropping the half-eaten apple on the floor. His expression did not change as he stood and wandered the length of the room. His eyes traveled the wall at a leisurely pace until they hit the window and stayed there.

Brutus watched him uneasily.

“And you?” asked Antony abruptly, still staring out the window. Then he threw up a forestalling hand. “No, wait – let me guess. 'Honored Brutus, feel free to come back whenever you like'.” When he glanced over, Brutus had gone sallow, and Antony's hand dropped. “You have got to be joking.”

“That wasn't their – _exact wording_ ,” began Brutus, peevish.

“Fucking typical.” He shook his head and threw himself down on a couch. He waved to the door. “Well, off you go. You're free.”

Brutus crumpled the letter and tossed it on the nearest brazier. He watched the parchment catch and curl into a brief flame, and said evenly, “I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult me.”

“Who am I to insult you? Nothing, now. An ingrate, I suppose. An exile—”

“Do you honestly think,” said Brutus thinly, “that if I was to return to Rome now, I wouldn't be walking straight into the sharp point of an assassin's blade?”

Antony paused, assessing. His feet came down to the floor as leaned towards him. “You think so?”

“Dolabella would not have named you enemy of the state unless he knew he had the backing to make it stick. Luring me back to Rome to – fix this, I suppose, is exactly what I would do, if I wanted to kill me.”

Antony's eyebrows rose. “Well, let's hope you never have to face yourself.”

Brutus spread his hands in weary acknowledgment and then, after a moment, allowed himself to bury his face in those same hands.

“What now,” he mumbled into his fingers.

Antony thought about it. “Wine?”  
  


* * *

  
“It's not your fault, Brutus,” he said a while later. They were lying on opposite couches, and staring at the ceiling. An empty amphora sat between them on the floor, equidistant from the two men. All slaves and Parthia business had been dismissed for the day. “All of this, I mean. I don't want you to blame yourself.”

Brutus levered himself up on one elbow and said fiercely, “It's not your fault either. I asked you to join the conspiracy.”

Antony sent him a baffled look. “I was actually going to blame Marius.”

The man was always ruining Brutus's big declarations. Brutus collapsed back and said, “Oh, be serious, Antony.”

“I am,” he protested. “I always am, not sure why everyone's always accusing me of making light.”

“You'll make light of your execution,” he muttered darkly.

“Guess we'll get to find out.” He caught sight of Brutus's face and added quietly, “Sorry.”  
  


* * *

  
Once it was clear the problem of the entire might of Rome bearing down upon their heads was not to be solved on the couches, they went for a walk to clear their heads. It was a mild day for early spring, and the sky was clear.

Without speaking of it, they made for the Roman Agora, taking little notice of the sights they were now so well used to: the fine day deepening into a lovely evening; the citizens who stopped and watched them pass.

“Will we fight?” asked Brutus bleakly.

Antony took his arm and considered it. “We could stay here in Greece – or go to Alexandria, I suppose.”

Brutus knew it cost him to make the offer, though he privately worried it did not cost him quite enough. “Queen Cleopatra has extended an open invitation,” he guessed.

“She assured me in her last letter that the remains of the Alexandrian library would be made available to your thorough perusal.”

“That woman,” said Brutus: almost, but not quite, admiring. “She is good, I'll give her that.” He roused himself and glanced at Antony. “But what would you do with this quiet life of ours in exile?”

“I suppose I... could become a great patron of the arts.” And when his companion smiled sadly, he said, “No? Can't envision that? Well, I'll figure something out.”

“Perhaps we should sleep on it,” suggested Brutus. “And decide the fate of the Republic in the morning.”

The Roman Agora had changed greatly in twenty years. Building had finally commenced, and statues were on display here and there near the pathways. They wandered it aimlessly, taking no more care for the surroundings than they had late at night, as young men who did not yet know they were in love.

“Though, you know,” said Brutus eventually, “if you – _did_ want to pursue the military option, I think I have a few ideas of where we could raise soldiers and funds.”

Antony looked at him, suspicious. “How many cups of wine have you had?”

The two proceeded, arms linked.

As focused as they were on one another, they did not notice when they passed a grand statue of Caesar that stood looking to the east: half-finished and much-abused from vandalism and graffiti, and now little more than a passing perch for birds making their way to the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank every person who left a comment on this series over the course of this long, arduous year. I am not exaggerating at all when I say the experience of researching and writing this fic has changed my life.
> 
> And Marcus, you mad bastard, if you're still awake and reading this -- happy 2021, and thank you.


End file.
